


Volatus

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Airplanes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:25:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5376869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney and John find a novel way out of a tricky situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Volatus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [McParrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McParrot/gifts).



> A SGA Secret Santa gift for McParrot! I hope you enjoy!

The arrow caught him in the back of the thigh and John stumbled, swearing, nearly taking Rodney down with him as he dropped abruptly.

“Colonel?” Hands grabbed him around the bicep and tugged him upright and he gritted his teeth, wincing.

“I’m fine, keep moving,” he ground out, shoving Rodney ahead of him. The artificial cliff wall spread out ahead of them, just a hundred feet away. _You can make it,_ he told himself, staggering to match Rodney’s huffing pace. _Come on, John!_

Another arrow whizzed past his shoulder, thudding into the dirt ahead of them. Rodney ducked, covering his head, as they skidded to a stop at the wall.

“Come on, come on,” Rodney muttered as he prodded at the tablet in his hands, while John glanced back over his shoulder and panted, leaning against the wall. 

“Any time now, Rodney,” he said, sighting along his Beretta and firing, noting with satisfaction the scream in the distance as one of their pursuers fell. The others hesitated for a second, glancing at their fallen comrade, shrugged, then continued firing. “Dammit, McKay!”

“All right, all right!” Rodney grabbed for his arm, hand sliding across his wrist and tugging him around, then slapping his hand down on a flat, glassy plate. “Think _open_ , now!”

The cliff wall parted along one narrow bronze seam, exposing an archway, and Rodney barrelled inside and yanked John behind him. “Now _close it,_ now, now!”

John thought _SHUT_ and threw himself out of the path of another arrow, which clattered to the floor behind him as the bright gap closed, leaving them in darkness with only the sounds of their panted breaths echoing in the silence.

Rodney sat down hard, leaning back against the wall, and John slid down beside him, wincing as he felt along his thigh around the arrow shaft still poking through both sides of his pants. “Well, Rodney, you did say you wanted a closer look,” he said, trying not to pass out as he snapped the long shaft off the arrow and tossed it aside. “We’ve got plenty of time now.”

“Oh my god, Sheppard!” Rodney leaned towards him, staring at his leg in the dim light of the facility. “You were _shot_?”

“Yeah.” John stretched his leg experimentally. “Just barely got me, though.” He grimaced. “Tore a nice hole in these pants, though. My last pair without a patch, too. Gonna have to trade for some new fabric after this.”

Even in the dark, he could tell Rodney was rolling his eyes. “Oh, yes, your _pants_. That’s the big concern here.”

“What?” John dug in his pack, pulled out a field dressing, unbuckled his belt, then rolled up on one hip so he could slide his pants down enough to see the wound, easing it over the arrowhead. _At least it’s cleanly through,_ he thought. “I need pants, Rodney. Hey, still got your flashlight?”

Rodney flicked it on and froze. The beam shot straight upward, illuminating a high, domed ceiling and breaking up across the glittering, mirrored walls to give the whole place a faint glow. “Whoa.” For once, he was speechless.

John gaped up at it as well, but the steady _drip-drip_ of blood helped him focus back on the task at hand. “Come on, we can check this out in a minute. Give me some light.”

Pointing the light towards his leg, Rodney dug in his pack until he found a couple foil packets and offered them to John. “You don’t know _what_ was on those arrows, Colonel,” he explained as John took the alcohol wipes and set them aside.

“Okay, Rodney, I’m gonna need your help with this part.” He handed Rodney one of the wipes back, tearing the packet. “Wipe your hands down, okay?”

Rodney nodded, going a little pale. A year or two ago, John knew, he would have griped and whined and threatened to pass out, but after a few years in the field, even Rodney had the basics of medical treatment down.

“Here.” John grabbed his wrist and tugged it until Rodney’s hand hovered over the half of the arrow still protruding. “You’re gonna have to pull that out.” When Rodney hesitated, John offered, “Unless you want to stick your hand in there once it’s out to stop the bleeding?”

“No, no no no, I’m fine with this part,” Rodney assured him.

“Okay, then.” John wiped his own hands down, then braced his thumbs on either side of the arrow. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Rodney yanked and John muffled a groan, eyes fluttering shut and teeth clenching. The flow of blood started up again and he grabbed for the third wipe and quickly ran it across both wounds before clamping his hands on either side of his leg. “ _Christ_ ,” he muttered, tipping towards Rodney.

A warm arm came up around his shoulders and his forehead thudded into a solid shoulder. He breathed deeply, trying to fight the wave of nausea, and got a noseful of warm, slightly sweaty air. It was distracting, just enough that he could relax his jaw and neck a little and lean into the embrace.

“You and Ronon,” Rodney said, quietly. “And Teyla, too. You just–you get _shot_ , and you just _pull out the arrow and keep going_. It’s ridiculous.”

“Wasn’t so bad,” John muttered, carefully relaxing his grip on his leg and turning his head until he could see his bloody, hairy thigh. “Just a through-and-through.”

“You got _shot_ with an _arrow,_ ” Rodney shook his head, the movement telegraphing down his chest under John’s cheek. “I can’t believe that’s not even _weird_ for me anymore.”

“Yeah, well. Pegasus.” John braced himself for moving, then slowly rolled upright, the air cold where he’d been touching Rodney. 

“Pegasus,” Rodney agreed. His hand stayed lightly on John’s shoulder, arm curled around him carefully.

John pulled out another field dressing and wrapped them around the wounds, now just trickling blood. “Okay. Now what’s the plan to get out of here?”

Rodney brightened. “Look at this.” He pulled his tablet back into his lap, prodding at the screen.

John recognized what he affectionately called Rodney’s Ancient Wi-Finder, although Rodney had assured him many times it was way more complicated that that. To this, John had replied that it was basically like driving around town finding unsecured networks, so it was essentially the same thing, and Rodney had refused to discuss it further. John took that as a win.

The display showed a bunch of Ancient writing: John recognized the words for “laboratory” (usually not a good sign) and “ship” (definitely a good sign).

“It’s a, a hobbyist’s workshop. Nothing too advanced, and it looks like most of what he was doing was modifying existing tech. But–hey!” John reached out and opened a subfolder, knocking Rodney’s hand away.

“Oh, I _like_ this guy,” he said. “Where’s _that_ lab?”

The screen showed a series of blueprints, obviously planes of some kind, and Rodney knocked John’s hand back. “Excuse me, _I’m_ the one who built the network modulator–”

“Wi-finder,” John corrected under his breath, and Rodney ignored the interruption–

“– _I’m_ the one who gets to use it.” He scrolls for a moment and sighs. “But unfortunately for _me_ , it looks like the planes are the only thing he ever got to work.” He pulled up a map. “Oh! But there _is_ a back door, over that way!” He climbed to his feet. “That’s the way back to the gate, anyway. Come on. It’s thingchops for dinner and I’m not letting Simpson get the last one again.” 

Together they walked down the hallway, John putting some of his weight on Rodney’s shoulder and Rodney casting yearning looks at the doorways on either side. 

“I bet we could learn a lot from an amateur,” John mused. “They might have _Gates for Dummies_ or _The Idiot’s Guide to Hyperdrives._ ”

“Yeah,” Rodney sounded torn. “We can come back, though. And _not_ cross into the sacred manure field or whatever that was, this time. Maybe bring Teyla, let her do the talking.”

John grinned. “Yeah, McKay, you’re not exactly the world’s best negotiator.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Rodney groused. “Here we go. Oh!” 

John had been wondering where the door let out, sort of idly, and it looked like the door had heard him. A peephole had opened in the arched door, and outside it were at least a dozen or so natives with bows. A _great many_ bows.  

“Okay then,” said John, tone bright. “Time for Plan B.”

“Plan B? We don’t have a–oh, no. No, no, no.”

John tugged the tablet away and grinned. “Oh, yes.”

\-----

The mesa at the top of the facility was broad and flat, with windblown dust and one unlikely tree rooted in a crack filled with accumulated dirt. The only significant rise was the shed they’d emerged from, in the center of the plateau.

The plane’s wheels rolled smoothly, though, despite ten thousand years of disuse. Rodney stared at the small craft skeptically as it rolled to a halt, wheels landing in small divots exactly the right size for them.

“You’ve got a degree in Mechanical Engineering, Rodney. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen an sailplane before.”

Rodney snorted, leaning in and running a finger along the join between wing and body. “Seen, yes. Flown in? No. Trusted a ten thousand year old one with my life? Definitely not.”

“This is the Ancients, Rodney. They built the gates, they can definitely build a little bird like this.”

“Oh, yes, they built the _gates._ The gates that rely on fragile crystals and break down every couple months? And let’s not forget Janus and his insane inventions. What if this is his, his _nephew’s lab_ or something? His brain-damaged nephew?”

“Even Janus’s brain-damaged nephew could probably build a simple glider, Rodney. Come on.” John hopped forward, supporting himself on the body of the craft and pressing his hand to the cockpit’s latch. The hatch popped open.

Rodney crowded against him, peering over his shoulder. “Well, that’s no use! How are we both going to fit in there? I could barely fit in there myself.”

“And you wouldn’t be able to fly it, anyway,” said John absently, reaching in and pushing each control, watching the rudder and flaps shift in response. “We’ll squeeze, Rodney.” 

“Will it hold both of us? I mean, not all of us are half-hair like you. Some of us are more–” he waved a hand at himself– “more, more solid!”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have had that second brownie at lunch, then.” The craft was actually pretty ingenious, and John itched to take it apart and see how the parts fit together.

“Oh, very funny, Colonel.” As expected, the familiar banter was calming Rodney, and he watched John’s manipulations carefully for a moment, then trotted around the back of the long fuselage, ducking under the wing. 

The biplane was about thirty feet long with a wingspan nearly three times that length. The wings were connected with a fine, delicate latticework in some metal neither of them recognized. It was extremely light, however: the two of them had had no trouble pulling it out themselves.

“Sheppard!” Rodney called, and John pulled his head from the cockpit. “Come look at this.”

John limped back towards him. “What’s up?”

Rodney pointed at the floor, where a hatch was just barely visible. As John approached, it slid open, revealing a hook very much like a carabiner attached to a length of some sort of cord that disappeared under the floor. Rodney tapped the underside of the plane and knelt down, pointing ahead. “There’s an eyelet up there, just forward of the wings.

“Oh, _cool_ ,” breathed John, as a narrow channel opened, stretching from the hatch all the way to the edge of the roof. In his mind something else opened, like a DVD menu, showing him his options and how to use them. “Okay, we can definitely make it to the gate with this. Trust me, Rodney, I know how to fly this,” he added, when Rodney hesitated. “Hand me the clip, I’ll get it hooked up.”

Rodney took another second to glance between the plane, the edge, and John, before sighing gustily and levering himself to his feet, tugging the carabiner with him and handing it to John, who clipped it in and ducked out from under the fuselage. “All right,” he said, dusting his hands off on his BDUs and patting the wing gently. “Let’s get this baby moving.”

The two paused beside the cockpit hatch, exchanging a glance. It was a _very_ small space.

“Okay, you’re going to have to get in first, McKay,” John said, bending down to look inside. “And I’ll get in in front of you.” He grinned suddenly. “Like riding a motorcycle. You ever ride a motorcycle, Rodney?”

“I’ll have you know that yes, I have, in fact,” Rodney said, snippy, and climbed into the seat, shoving himself as far back as he could. “But there’s a little more space on one of those. This is like shoving two people in a kayak and expecting it to float.”

“It’ll be fun,” John reassured him, and awkwardly lifted his injured leg, wincing at the stretch. Rodney reached out and tugged his arms, and he slid in in a controlled tumble, landing solidly in Rodney’s lap.

“ _Oof_ ,” Rodney grunted tightly, pushing at John. “You’re heavier than you look, you know.”

“I’m not sure if I should be offended at that,” John replied mildly, settling himself between Rodney’s thighs and finding the pedals with his feet. “Now, let’s do this.” He closed his eyes and reached out, finding the Ancient interface in his mind and tightening the bungee attached to the bottom of the plane.

“You _really_ don’t think we’re going to die, do you?” Rodney asked nervously, voice quiet and tickling the hairs behind John’s ear. This close, John could feel the pounding of his heart through his chest against John’s back. His breath was hot and moist against John’s cheek.

“I really don’t, Rodney,” he said. 

“Well.” Rodney tensed suddenly. “Um. In case we do, I–” he stopped, let out a burst of air in frustration, and shifted in his seat awkwardly.

John sighed, turned a bit until he could lean back and look Rodney in the face. “Yeah, McKay?”

“I just. Well.” His hand darted up and curved around John’s cheek, pulling him in, and John was being kissed.

He froze, panicked, for a long second. Rodney’s mouth was warm, soft, and _pressed to his_. And then it wasn’t, it was pulling back, tensing, and John reached up and grabbed Rodney by the shoulder of his shirt and pulled him back in, ignoring the surprise in his eyes and fitting their mouths back together. 

It was awkward, in the tight cockpit, but he kept kissing Rodney until finally, finally, they were on the same page, Rodney’s hand buried in the short hair on the back of John’s head and his tongue leaving a tingling trail along John’s bottom lip.

“We’re not going to die, McKay,” John said, voice low, as he pulled back, resting his forehead for a moment against Rodney’s temple. 

Rodney blinked at him. “Right. Yes. Um.” He blinked again and waved a hand at the controls regally, then settled it proprietarily at John’s waist. “Carry on, then.” 

He was warm behind John, a solid block of comfort and possibility, and John took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let go.

 

 


End file.
